


Five Years' Time

by skippingreelsofrhyme



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:38:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3347270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skippingreelsofrhyme/pseuds/skippingreelsofrhyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Everyone on the Enterprise thinks they are the lone gay friend but they are wrong. Somehow that ends in Kirk/Spock"</p><p>(I will update tags/rating as fic progresses)</p><p>ON HIATUS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

                As it always was, the issue was that of… biology. Spock turned to look out of the viewport in his quarters. Though he often kept the rhombus-shaped golden panel closed to keep his mind from wandering, on this particular day he had it open. Perhaps a wandering mind was what he desired. Playing softly from his computer was a tinny-sounding recording of Vulcan folk music, likely from the early days. Had he wanted to, Spock might have wracked his brain for the exact date of this particular recording as well as the complete history of the performers, all of which he undoubtedly knew. However, it was this kind of hyper activity he wanted to calm.

                Calm. Yes, that was what he wanted. Calm from everything swirling around in his mind. Meditation would not do—he couldn’t concentrate. Meditation was a fickle delight, and would only bring peace if one was already peaceful. Spock had had enough fits of frustration (forbidden) at his inability to meditate to know that he should not even make an attempt on this particular day. A busy mind was like being put on drugs with heretofore unknown side effects, which had _also_ happened to Spock, a number of times. (Though this was not due to any malpractice of the good doctor—rather due to alien life-forms with Spock in their possession, thankfully though, never under the blade.) (Perhaps something should be done about how often Spock was, for lack of a better term, abducted by aliens.)

                “Incoming transmission,” buzzed the ship’s computer.

                “From whom?” Spock asked, still looking down into the abyss of space, only a few stars to remind him that not only is there eternal nothingness, but also that everything living will die, just as the imprints of the stars’ light in space is just an after-image of what are surely dead suns.

                “Pavel Chekov,” answered the computer. Spock turned away from the void with one eyebrow quirked. The young officer was on shore leave, not due back for another few days. This contact was intriguing. Had there been some altercation or problem of any sort, he would have contacted the bridge. Spock activated the viewing screen on his computer. Chekov’s chubby young face came slowly into focus. As it did, Spock noted that his face was ruddier than normal and every so often gave a snuff, with his watery eyes downturned. Had… had he been crying?

                “Ensign Chekov,” Spock said, startling the lad out of his reverie. When he jerked his head up to attention, a tear rolled out of his eye, which was quickly rubbed away.

                “Commander Spock,” Chekov said. “I, uh, I was wondering if I could talk to you.”

                Spock’s eyebrow remained raised. “You are talking to me, ensign.”

                “No, I mean, well, _mano-el-mano_. You know the Spanish took that saying from Russia? We—“

                “Thank you, ensign,” Spock said. A reference to his beloved mother country meant the young man was not _completely_ out of sorts. “What do you wish to speak of?”

                “Well,” Chekov’s pink face turned redder. “Spock, I really look up to you. And I really trust you. And I feel like you might understand what I’m going through.”

                Spock said nothing, but waited for Chekov’s admittance to having tried illegal substances during his shore leave, that he was now being held in custody, and was hoping Spock might have some magical Vulcan way to get him out of his spat with the authorities without having to notify Starfleet of his transgression.

                “Spock, I think I’m gay.”

                Had he been human (incorrect), Spock would have been “blown out of the ballpark,” but as a Vulcan (correct), he remained planted in his seat—a tribute to nonmoving inanimate objects everywhere. “Oh,” he said.

                “And I didn’t really know who to tell, but I thought it would be, well, weird, you know? To tell the captain,” Chekov sputtered. “And it’s not like I’m coming on to you, or confessing my love or anything, that would be weird, but, like—“

                “You’re quite alright, ens—Chekov.” He mused for a moment, then said, “There, there.”

                “Thank you, Mister Spock,” Chekov said. He swiped at his eyes again.

                “Chekov, it appears you have been weeping. Is that so?” The mention of his tears seemed to stir them up again. “I do not mention it in jest. If you are crying, then I assume something bad has happened.”

                “Oh, no, not really, well, I mean I had kind of my heart broken but… I mean, I shouldn’t have gotten so attached so quickly, don’t you think, Spock?”

                “I cannot give you any advice without knowing more details about the affair.”

                “Oh, well,” Chekov said, voice cracking. “Wh-what you mean by affair?”

                “Just tell me what happened,” Spock sighed, slouching slightly in his chair. Suddenly self-conscious of his mannerisms, he checked himself and sat up straight again.

                “Okay, well, I was just going to have a fling, you know, or, well I guess you don’t know but you _know_ ,” Chekov gestured emphatically.

                “Please continue,” Spock said.

                “Well, you know how things go, you meet people, you have a couple drinks, it’s all fun and games, another Russian expression, Mister Spock, but I was hanging with this girl, or with these girls, and they just kinda weren’t doing it for me, you know? Well, they were thinking of having a, you know, a uh, party. Type thing. With a lot of people. Like with not-girl people. And _that_ got me going, so, initially, I thought, ‘oh that’s weird’ and didn’t really even think about it? Cuz we were going to this party, and I was already kinda tipsy, I mean, you know how well I can hold my liquor, Spock, you remember the Christmas party, but anyway—“

                Chekov’s story was quickly becoming arduous. Though Spock held the young man somewhere between respect and affection, he had quite the tendency to ramble. Spock’s eyes were slightly drawn back behind him, where the endless expanse of space beckoned him to gaze at forever. He kept his viewport closed for a reason.

                “And after that, he never returned my messages, and I haven’t seen him since. He probably gave me a false name, the bastard,” Chekov sneered and blew his nose. Spock leaned forward to indicate, yes, he had been listening this whole time. Apparently Chekov had met someone—some _man_ —at this party, and, well… _something_ had happened. Curse _l’appel du vide_. (Spock appreciated the human language of French. Some of the uses of apostrophe were almost reminiscent of some unknown, ancient Vulcan dialect.)

                “I see,” Spock said. “What are you going to do now?”

                “Oh, I don’t know,” Chekov said noncommittally. “I think I’ll probably just go to sleep. Kind of a lot to digest, huh?”

                Spock nodded sagely.

                Chekov rustled his hair self-consciously. “Hey, well, thanks for listening, Spock. I haven’t really done that before, so sorry if I maybe went on a little too long.”

                “Not at all,” Spock fibbed. “I’m glad to have helped.”

                “Yeah you have,” Chekov beamed. “It was really good to get that off my chest. I tried to tell a girl all this when I was drunk, well I wasn’t that drunk, you know how well I can hold my liquor, you remember the captain’s birthday, Spock, but all that only made her wanna get with me I guess, and you know how I feel about that now.” Chekov laughed. “I guess this actually explains a lot of things that I was having difficulties with in the, uh, attraction department. Seeing as how now I know what I’m not attracted to.”

                “Yes,” Spock said, without a firm grasp on what the ensign was talking about.

                “Well, I’ll sign off now. Thanks again, Spock!” said Chekov, quite chipper.

                “Goodbye, Chekov,” said Spock, and the computer screen went black. Not unlike the eternal blackness of space.

 


	2. Chapter 2

                “Captain Kirk to the bridge,” Spock paged through the intercom. The captain’s precious few hours of sleep were up, and though Spock often waited a few extra minutes to call him back to his unending tide of work, he knew that it didn’t really matter. He would tell himself it was to aid the captain’s functioning by allowing him a few extra minutes of sleep, but that was just his official justification. He knew the captain barely slept during his off-time anyway.

                “I’m on my way,” buzzed the intercom back at Spock.

                “Incoming message from Starfleet Command,” Uhura said from behind him. Spock swiveled around in the captain’s chair to face the communications officer. “Shall I wait for the captain?”

                “No, I’ll take it,” Spock said.

                “OK, directing message to front-view screen…” Uhura said, flipping a switch. She continued to adjust her dials, straining to make clear every frequency known to Starfleet.

                The screen in front of Spock buzzed and blinked open to the sight of General Kamtou, an Andorian who was once a very skilled diplomat, but had taken the role of a Starfleet officer when her planet decided she might be a little _too_ diplomatic. There were many rumors surrounding the general and her relationships with members of other species, which Spock knew to be false, as the two had had tea once a number of years ago, where she had disclosed the fact that she was not interested in “that sort of thing” to him. Perhaps there was a pattern in people confessing their private matters to Spock, who, frankly, did not seem to be the right person for _that_ sort of thing.

                “Hello, Commander Spock,” said Kamtou, evenly. As a highly scrutinized general, she kept a straight face, but her greeting was warm, and Spock could tell she was pleased to see him once again.

                “Greetings, General Kamtou,” said Spock, equally pleased to see her. “To what does the Enterprise owe the honor?”

                “Commander, Starfleet recently received the new star charts logged by the Enterprise and her crew, and I’d like to discuss the discrepancies between the positions predicted and the positions logged and charted. You are the science officer as well, are you not?”

                “Yes, General, I am.”

                “Well, I understand the Enterprise is due for docking here at Beta Aurigae in approximately 48 hours. I would like to arrange a meeting then.”

                “Am I interrupting something?” Captain Kirk grinned as he walked onto the bridge, the turbo-lift closing shut behind him. Yeoman Rand paused in her ministrations with her ever-present electronic clipboard to retort a “Captain on deck,” which Kirk quickly dismissed. Officers at ease, Rand scurried into the turbo-lift that Kirk had just exited, all while making fairly illegible marks on her clipboard. She was the most hardworking and indispensable yeoman to be sure, but definitely had the worst handwriting.

                “Not at all, Captain,” said Spock, rising from the captain’s chair. “General Kamtou wishes to meet with me when we dock to discuss the new star charts.”

                “Ah yes, the ones from section B-40?” Kirk asked. Upon Spock’s nod of affirmation, Kirk turned to the screen. “Thank you for the message, General.”

                “I am glad our schedules worked out accordingly,” said the general. “Kamtou signing off.”

                The screen blinked out and the view returned to the stars ahead. Spock quickly paced over to his station—the one that didn’t face the stars—as Kirk took his seat. He rubbed his eyes. “Course set for Beta Aurigae?” the captain asked.

                “Aye sir, we’re due in 46 hours,” Sulu replied with a concerned glance back towards the dazed captain. The normal hum of the ship returned to the bridge for a moment.

                “Sir,” Spock said. “How did you sleep?”

                Kirk chuckled grimly. “Well, Mister Spock, I can’t truthfully say I did.”

                “Ah,” said Spock. “I’ll be taking my leave now, Captain.”

                “Go ahead, Mister Spock,” the captain said with a slight wave. Spock rose from his station, and without a single furtive glance at blank, vast space nor his sleep-deprived captain, exited the bridge via the turbo-lift.

~

                Spock had long shut the viewport in his quarters. His recent musings on space were getting progressively grimmer as time went on. Though he didn’t feel upset (no emotions), he still didn’t prefer to be morose. Perhaps a stroll would do him good, since he’d just taken the opportunity to sleep for a few hours. Spock swiftly changed into leisure attire, and exited his quarters, making his way towards the rec room. He forced himself to take his time wandering through the ship’s halls, as opposed to briskly pacing down the shortest route. Coming to a bend in the corridor, Spock heard a familiar voice with a more-familiar angry tone.

                “Jim, god damn it!”

                “Bones, what am I supposed to do?”

                “Sleep!”

                “And leave everything unfinished?”

                “Yes! You _know_ Spock gives you those five extra minutes every day because he’s hoping you’ll sleep in for once!”

                There was a pause. “Yes.”

                “Then why don’t you use them?!”

                “I _do_ , McCoy. Just not the way _you_ want me to.” The sound of stomping footsteps receded, as their angry owner traveled opposite the direction of Spock’s hiding place. Not hiding place, standing place. He wasn’t hiding.

                “Damn it…” The sound of a turbo-lift activating, then only the white noise of the ship remained.

                Spock was glued to the floor. He was… not shocked, because that would be an emotional reaction. Why hadn’t anyone reported this? If even Doctor McCoy knew about his habit, McCoy who was never on the bridge if he could help it, then who else knew? This kind of discrepancy could be overlooked if it only happened once or twice, but even the doctor had used the words “every day.” And the captain had known about it too! Spock’s head was spinning. He peered around the corner to make doubly sure the coast was clear, then began to speed down the halls to the rec room, making sure his footsteps were loud. He didn’t want to be caught in that kind of situation any more today.


	3. Chapter 3

                The rec room, as always, was bustling with activity. No room in there for one’s thoughts to meander. There was always something to do, someone to chat with, something to wait for. Absolutely no personal thoughts could be thought in the buzz and hubbub of the rec room. Spock entered, and the crowd took no notice. Good. Even the newer crewmembers had learned that while your betters were to be respected, they could be friends during off-time. It was not as if, though, Spock had many friends aboard the Enterprise. He was a rather private man to begin with, and being the only Vulcan, and one of the only non-humans on the ship did not aid him in socialization. He did, however, spot Montgomery Scott, tossing back what seemed to be his second scotch (really, Scotty?) as a laughing Chekov bid farewell and skipped off to the other side of the room. Spock walked over to Scotty’s table as the chuckling Scotsman laid down his glass.

                “Spock! How are ye doin’ this fine mornin’?”

                “I am well,” Spock answered with a sideways glance at the empty glasses. “How are you, Mister Scott?”

                “Now, Spock,” Scotty chided. “Don’t ye be chastising me on me drinking habits. I get enough of that from that old salty doctor!”

                “I wouldn’t think of it,” said Spock, diplomatically. He looked over to where Chekov had joined a group of young officers palling around. “How is Mister Chekov?”

                “Oh, just fine. That’s one funny laddie!” Scotty chuckled, ordering another drink.

                “What was he talking to you about?” Spock asked, feigning nonchalance as he nibbled on one of the celery-shaped vegetables from the centerpiece at the table.

                “Actually, he was tellin’ me about the conversation ye had the other day. I dinnae think he’d’a told you first! _That_ was more surprisin’ than the fact o’ the matter. I was expectin’ him to come tae me, really, seein’ as how I know what he’s goin’ through.”

                “Pardon me, Scotty?”

                Scott looked surprised. “Mister Spock, surely ye knew that I was gay from the get-go? I’d have thought that everyone aboard knew that already.”

                “Oh,” said Spock. He had, as a matter of fact, not known. Scotty gave a roar of laughter (which fortunately did not attract any attention, due to the background noise) and slapped Spock on the back, knocking the vegetable from his hand onto the table.

                “Well, Spock, ye’ve done well by that lad; he’s rushin’ about, happy as a clam, just because o’ yer support.”

                “I’m not sure I actually gave him support, Scotty.”

                “Well, ye listened tae his story and were there when he needed it. That’s what I call support, Mister Spock,” said Scotty with a wink. “Ah, here comes me drink. Now scuttle off, Mister Spock. I won’t have you sittin’ here judgin’ me for me practices off-duty.”

                With Scotty’s shooing motion driving him away, Spock rose and wandered around the rec room, a casual observer to some amateur chess games. He wondered if thinking of Mister Scott’s behavior as inappropriate was poor conduct—which led him to think of his stance on the captain’s poor sleeping habits; Scotty didn’t like Spock’s policing of his alcohol intake, so would that mean the captain would not approve of Spock’s interference? Well, technically speaking, he _should_ disapprove of Spock’s misconduct. Perhaps Scotty’s alcohol and Jim’s sleep were issues best left to the doctor. But what was the argument in the hall he had overheard this morning? McCoy obviously wished Jim to sleep, which he indubitably did not. Might he approve of Spock’s decision? Spock decided to pay a visit to the good doctor later this afternoon.

                “Hello, Commander Spock! Say, would you give me a tip for what move I should make next?”

                “Commander Spock, don’t listen to him! I’ll lose right away!” the two ensigns squabbled with each other over the game of chess which could obviously be won in three moves, stalemated in six, and which would likely finish in thirty.

~

                “Excuse me,” Spock said, opening the door to the sick bay. As he did so, he was nearly pummeled by Doctor McCoy.

                “Are you dying, Spock?” accused the doctor.

                “No, doctor,” replied Spock.

                “Then pardon me!” McCoy pushed past the slightly baffled second officer and down the corridor, his medical bag swinging out as he fled, and as a testimony to the existence of centripetal force, knocked Spock fairly hard in the stomach.

                “Oof,” said Spock.

                “Oh Spock, are you alright?” Nurse Chapel called from around the corner. Then, to someone else, “There dear, you’re all set.”

                “Thank you, Nurse Chapel,” chirped the ensign as she rose to leave, a small bandage on her arm. As Spock entered the room, Chapel craned her head to watch the ensign leave, her eyes surreptitiously on the rear of the young officer.

                “Nurse.”

                “Excuse me!” Chapel exclaimed, quite flustered, putting away the antibiotic cream and adhesive bandages. “How can I help you, Spock?”

                Spock looked over his shoulder to see the door close behind the ensign, then turned to Chapel with one eyebrow raised.

                “Yes, Mister Spock?” Chapel asked, indignantly, denying everything Spock had not yet accused her of.

                “I was looking to speak with the doctor,” said Spock, denying everything Chapel hadn’t accused him of accusing. “But as he is out, I will come back later.”

                “Yes, that’s probably best,” Chapel replied, shuffling paperwork. Spock swiftly took his leave.

~

                Spock recalled that once, the captain had said, perhaps with a touch of irony, “What was this day even about?” Though the colloquial expression was fairly foreign to him, and more than a little confusing, he now, today, fully understood the sentiment. Alone in his room, a sanctuary from the hectic personal lives of others, he changed into meditation garb, and seated himself on the floor.

                What was this day even about?

                It was not some children’s program encouraging the listener to recite the lesson learned in the most recent episode. It was an exasperated rhetorical question from an adult to another adult, wondering why the day had been so abnormal.

                Spock’s day had been quite abnormal.

                This was not something he very much appreciated.


End file.
